C'est La Vie!
by Keahi08
Summary: Alfred takes it upon himself to convince Matthew to take his college funding and blow it all on a trip to Paris. And oh, what fun it will be. AU fic, mostly Franada and UsUk, but lots of other side pairings ensue.
1. Et Bienvenue Vers Paris

"Paris?"

Matthew could only stare out his window, watch the birds flutter and dance outside, and let his coffee spill all over the counter as it overflowed from his cup.

"Yeah! Didn't you say you always wanted to go to Paris?" Laughed Alfred, and Matthew cursed, burning his hand on the spilt coffee and moving the phone away from his mouth. "And now you've got the chance! Come on, Mattie! What ever happen to following your dreams?! To believing in who you are-!!"

Matthew heard, in the background, someone asking, 'what does that have to do with-?' but Alfred quickly silenced them with a, 'hey, shut up.'

Sighing into the phone, the Canadian set down his cup of coffee and nervously adjusted his glasses. "Alfred… Don't you think that's a little much? I mean, really? Paris? I'd get lost in a heartbeat-"

"No you wouldn't!" Interjected his brother. "You'd have me and Artie! Wouldn't that be a fun little trip, Matt? You've always wanted to go to Paris! You've been telling me that forever! With all this money they're giving you, Matt, they're practically asking you to go!"

Matthew Williams did not claim to be the best writer in the world. He was perfectly content to go to college, go to the library, do his work, and later write little children's books. That was great for him. He wouldn't be famous, no one would really know his name, but some little kid would ask their mom to read them HIS book on night… he hoped.

But he had still obtained this wonderful scholarship. When Arthur was more than prepared to pay for all of his expenses. It was a big mistake to include this in one of his emails to his brother in America, as Alfred had immediately called him at 5:14 in the morning – which was why he was making coffee right now, because he knew there would be no way in hell that he was going to get back to bed after this conversation. It was Alfred, after all.

Alfred had a knack for turning Matthew's words around so that he was agreeing with the American.

"Al, this sounds like you just wanna get outta your house and go on a vacation," he admitted, leaning against the counter. Upon doing this, his coffee spilt all over him and he moved the phone away from him again so he could whisper a shrill 'shit!'

"No, no-that's the beauty of this Mattie. Listen to me-you know how much I hate it here. And how much you hate it there-"

"Alfred, I happen to like Canada. I told you it was the way to go but you-"

"Ah, ah, ah, I'm not done, Matt! You gotta listen! Now… What if… I told you… you could just… got to paris and blow a whole lot of money and have the time of your fucking life?! Doesn't that sound awesome!? Fucking Paris, Matt! Everyone wants to go to Paris, don't act like you don't."

"Al, it's not that I don't want to it's just-"

"Aha! I know what it is!" Matthew could just see his brother bouncing around the room as he talked, and he rolled his eyes, letting the American humor him. "You're scared to live a little! Come on, Matt, you're acting like this sort of opportunity happens everyday! You gotta take some chances! Up, hold on, gotta click a button."

Matthew opened his mouth to counter that statement, but quickly closed it and furrowed his small blond eyebrows, a bit perplexed by that last statement.

Alfred was quiet for just a moment (which was a rare occurrence, for him to be quiet for anything under a quarter of a second), and then he whispered, as if excited into the phone, "Hey. Hey Matt. Guess what I just did?"

Sighing, Matthew picked up his coffee cup, which he was finally going to drink. Tiredly (and maybe out of boredom), he let his eyes flutter and falter for just a moment before rising the cup to his lips to take a sip. "What, Al? What did you do?"

"Bought us some plane tickets to France."

Matthew's promptly spurted from his mouth, scaring his white dog away with a yip, and Matthew again lowered the phone away from him so he could yell, "Oh, Kuma, I'm sorry!"

* * *

"Bonjour, et bienvenue vers Paris," Francis greeted, twirling around as he walked. The women he addressed giggle in response, waving to him kindly and walking down the streets.

Francis watched them walk around, smiled as they left, then frowned. Tourists. To hell with the lot of them. Tourists made business terrible because there was always so many of them. They were everywhere. You couldn't turn a corner without hearing god awful French asking you how to get to the Eiffel Tower. Which had happened to him before, and he had stared at the woman before him in complete and total shock. He then raved about how the Tower's 'Right bloody there, you can't miss it.'

He groaned softly to himself. He was really tired of walking around everywhere constantly to avoid being seen at any given place. He had no time to relax. But then again, he supposed he had sort of accepted (and expected) that when he agreed to step up with Antonio and become the Mafia's sub-boss.

Poor Antonio had it worse than him. The man couldn't leave headquarters. But Francis… Francis had been spotted – Francis was a wanted man, albeit a sneaky one. He barely remembered the days Antonio and him had been roped into joining in the first place, and here they were running the joint when they didn't even want to. They planned to leave some day soon, leave like Gilbert had, wherever he was.

At that moment, Francis was moseying around the airport. He had been up and down the city countless times, and he figured he would just sit down and watch all the pretty faces come in. Though only one in ten were… well, pretty.

"Ah, Mademoiselle, welcome to Paris," he cooed at a young lady walking by. "Enjoy your stay." As he winked, the girl flushed a brilliant red, clung to the arm of her friend, who started laughing at her, and shyly ran away.

Pretty… But Francis had seen Prettier.

"Alfred! Stop moving so fast! I-I can't carry all this by myself!"

Francis's ears perked, and he looked up, searching the crowd for the voice he heard. Although there were many others, that worried tone had perked his interest, and it's owner had to be the prettiest thing he'd see for a while. Had to be, by the sound of that voice.

He wasn't tall, but he wasn't short either. His hair wasn't straight or curly, but a little wavy, almost like Francis's own. His glasses were sliding off his face, and he was hurriedly and worriedly running after someone in front of him. He was carrying several bags and suitcases, and seemed to be having a terrible time with keeping them in his arms. So Francis decided to intervene.

"Ici, permettez-moi vous aider avec cela," he said, his voice light and warm, as he picked the bags from the boys arms. In turn, the pretty tourist turned as red as the hoodie was wearing, and went completely stiff. "Vous parlez français?" Francis asked, casually.

The poor thing looked completely mesmerized. His glasses were still a bit crooked on his face, and his bright blue eyes were wide with… with some emotion the Frenchman couldn't identify. "Er," He murmured, furrowing his eyebrows at the boy and setting his bags down. "Do you speak French?"

"…Oh! Oh, no, I mean-I understood you I just… I'm a little… Uh…"

Francis smiled. He was even cuter when he was nervous. "Jetlag?"

"Um… Maybe." His nimble fingers slicked some of his hair behind his ear, and he smiled the single sweetest smile Francis had ever seen. His rosy cheeks glinted down to a light shade of pink, and in one quick motion, he adjusted his glasses onto his face.

Francis could only stare at him. As adorable as he was, he had better learn to not be so sweet to every stranger he saw.

"Hey, Mattie!" called a voice from somewhere in the bustling crowd. Francis continued to stare into the eyes of this boy, who amiably smiled back, until he – apparently – heard his name and jumped up.

"Oh, that-That's my brother, I-"

"Don't let me keep you, chéri," The older man purred, moving some hair out of Matthew's face. "Have fun."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked away, waving at Matthew from behind. The Canadian stared at him, his glasses falling down his nose again, in complete and total awe. When he looked down, he realized all of things he had been carrying her laying neatly at his feet, arranged in a way Matthew could easily pick up. This only made him blush more.

"Mattie," cried Alfred, looking stern and serious (or, as stern as Alfred could be). He literally slid to a stop next to his brother, and suspiciously watched the Frenchman walk away, his hands in his coat packets. "The hell was that? You know that creepy bastard? Matt, you can't just let any old French guy go up to you and start talking to you! They're French! They're suave and sweet-talking, but in the end they just wanna get into your pants, you know that-"

At this, Matthew snapped out of his trance and looked at his brother sideways. "Alfred, that's very stereotypical and-"

"Next time anybody comes walking up to you, scream and flail and call for your brother, Me!" Here, Matthew resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I'll swoop down and be your hero!"

"Alfred! Matthew! What the bloody hell is taking you so long?"

Matthew looked behind Alfred, who simply looked over his shoulder, and withheld the presence of Arthur Kirkland, in all of his glory. He had his thin arms crossed over his chest, and his (rather large) eyebrows furrowed down in agitation as they always were. His bright green eyes, as pretty as they were, always found a way to look aggravated and tired. How he and Alfred had maintained such a wonderful friendship was always beyond Matthew.

"Just teachin' my little bro not to talk to strangers," chirped Alfred with his usual shining smile, as he slapped his brother on the back, making him flinch slightly. "You ready to get going, Artie?"

Arthur scoffed at the nickname, but Matthew noted he never objected to being called by it. He turned his nose up at the brothers, 'hmph'-ing audibly. "Yes, yes. Let's get going now, shall we? I'd rather not have to cart you around the city like a couple of 5 year olds."

As usual, Alfred closed his eyes, smiled cheerily and said (just as Matthew knew he would), "You're so cute, Artie." He made a habit out of saying this whenever Arthur said something unnervingly cruel or sarcastic, and Matthew didn't know if he did this to pick on the stoic Briton, but he knew that his brother was sure to say it every time.

Arthur, as he always did, blushed a light shade of pink, furrowed his eyebrows down further, and deepened the scowl he always wore. Then he zipped around and murmured something about what a sodding imbecile Alfred was and stomped off. And, following their nice little routine, Alfred just continued to laugh and walked after his friend.

Matthew groaned loudly. "Guuuuys," he whined, as his voice broke the teensiest bit. "I said I can't carry this by myself!"

* * *

"So, Artie," smiled Alfred. "Where do you wanna go first? I told you I'd let you pick the hotel and the restaurant so go on and pick one! Do you wanna go shopping? I know that sounds kinda… gay and girly but… Hell, it's Paris, so we might as well, you know? Damn, I bet everything's really expensive though. Ha, but we've got money to spend, don't we?"

With every word that came out of Alfred's mouth, Arthur felt a few brain cells of his explode. It was at times like this, wandering the busy streets of fucking Paris, knowing, feeling, that they were going to get lost, he asked himself why. He asked himself why he had kept himself in Alfred's company for so long?

He asked himself that question every other day. And usually it was when he was feeling solemn and when he was sitting in that chair in their apartment Alfred had spilt tea on that one time when he was bringing it to Arthur while on the phone with his brother. But anyway. The question usually evaporated into thin air when his roommate would walk up to him and smile that same breathtaking smile, asking him what was up.

In all of his years (and Alfred like to remind Arthur that he was boring an old man), Arthur would never, ever imagine that out of all the beautiful people out there, out of all the wonderful people he knew that were so sensible and calm and collected, he had fallen in love with his roommate Alfred.

He shuddered just admitting it to himself. When thinking of that sort of thing, his affections would sneak into his mind, making him flustered. Or well, more so than usual.

One day, he promised himself. He would get over this stupid… erm… c-crush.

Him admitting his feelings to Alfred was out of the question. So Arthur devoted his attention on making the feeling go away. Lord knows how many times he had tried moving out. Tried. He could never do it. He'd pack his bags, having not told his roommate, and then Alfred would slide into his room on the hardwood floor with his socks on, his hair a mess and his eyes wide and glowing like a child, ask Arthur how he felt about getting a dog. And Arthur would sigh, hide his bags out of Alfred's view and remind him that the apartment building didn't allow animals, and then Alfred would hang his head and Arthur would have to go and console him. What was he talking about again? Oh yes. He couldn't move out.

"Artie? Are you listening to me?" Arthur looked over his shoulder to find Alfred's lips pursed together tightly, so like a child's, and he gave his friend a rare little genuine smile.

"Honestly? No. What did you say?"

Alfred sighed tiredly, almost groaning, then smiled his usual one. "Ah, nothing. Matt, you've been quiet – You want me to take some more of your ba-- …Matt?"

Arthur turned around, and joined Alfred in gaping at the air, where Matthew should have been.

* * *

"…A-Al?"

Oh geez. Oh man, oh geez, oh man, oh geez, oh _God_. He was lost. Lost in Paris. _Lost_ in one of the biggest, most complex cities in the world. He gripped the shoulder strap of the messenger bag his brother had given to him (because Alfred had insisted on carrying fucking everything, leaving Matthew with the tiniest bag they had).

"Al?" echoed a voice, gruff and low, and Matthew jumped, pursing his lips together so he wouldn't audibly squeak. "Hey, Alfonse. Think he's lookin' for you."

"Oh," rasped Matthew, his voice suddenly leaving him. "N-No, n-not you-M-My brother Alfred. I-I'm just-It's OK, I'll just be-be on my way and-"

"Hey," Came another voice, presumably Alfonse. What's in the bag? S'it really that heavy or are you arms just shit?" A chorus of odd, rough laughter erupted lightly between the two strangers, and Matthew shivered.

Don't talk to strangers, he reminded himself, and he bypassed the two quickly, taking a little shortcut through an alleyway. One of them was quickly in front of him, making him yelp and jump back, which caused more amused laughs from the two.

"Lemme guess, tourist? How ya likin' the city? You know… And I think you'll agree with me here, Ray… Tourists are just bad for business, ya know? I mean, I can't go anywhere without havin' 'em as witnesses. Aggravating, don't you think?"

Matthew backed away from the two of them, gripping onto the strap of the shoulder bag, before bumping into the chest of a third man, and his face became white.

He was far too scared to make another shriek as a warm hand placed itself on his shoulder, and he didn't know whether to be relieved or frightened when he heard from behind him, "When I told you to have fun, chéri, this wasn't what I had in mind."


	2. Call It Coincidence

In a rush, all of the blood in Arthur's body went spiraling up to his face, and it took an enormous amount of self-control not to wrap his hands around that Ilong, smooth/I neck of Alfred's.

"You sodding idiot!" Exclaimed the Brit, throwing up his hands for extra emphasis. "Look what you've done!"

"Me?" squawked Alfred in reply, his voice shooting up slightly. "What'd I do?"

After sputtering incoherently on his sentence in absolute rage, Arthur managed to get out, "Y-Y-Y-You've lost Matthew! Lost! In Paris! Some brother you are!"

"What?!"

"And with all of our things! All of our money, all of our maps—"

"Artie, Ichill/I--"

Alfred, looking quite relaxed by all of this, moved his hands on a slow, soothing motion down, towards the ground, in the general direction he would've liked Arthur's temper to go in. But his enraged friend would have none of this, instead flushing a darker color and jabbing a finger at the bespectacled blonde.

"First of all," he hissed, sourly, and it took a tremendous amount of effort on Alfred's part not to laugh at said sourness, "Do not call me 'Artie.' And—And—And second of all, I will bnot/b chill! F-F-Find Matthew! Find him!"

"I'll find him," assured Alfred, smiling like nothing was wrong in the world. "What're you so worried about?" He pleasantly strode away from his friend, and Arthur, still a bit enraged, watched him stride along the sidewalk like everything was A-OK. "Matt's not the first to get lost in Paris, come on. Everyone gets lost in Paris. That's why you've got the nice police officers, right?"

The infuriating thing about Alfred was that he had the innate ability to sound like he knew what the hell he was talking about when he didn't. And whether he was either sickeningly optimistic or unnervingly idiotic was beyond Arthur. "I… I suppose," He confessed, lowly.

"Sir," piped Alfred, waving to an officer who was leaning against a building. "'Scuse me, but could you help us? We're in a bit of a pickle here."

The officer was a fairly tiny man – he certainly didn't look like he was fit to be among police, who, back in America, at least, always seemed large and tough-looking, like they would protect you. This man looked more like he just wanted to be your friend. He donned the same outfit every other officer in the city did, but his was fitted in a particularly small size. His chocolate brown hair was thin and wispy, hanging a bit below his chin, and his large brown eyes made him seem a bit tired. "Eh?" He mused, his voice quiet. "Ah, yes! How can I help you?"

Alfred flashed a reassuring smile to the man – who was a bit shorter than he was. "See, me and my friend lost my brother, and we have absolutely no clue where the hell he went. Think you can help us?"

"Ah…" The small man looked towards the floor, looking confused. "Hold on, please," he said, politely, before turning the corner (to get someone, Alfred assumed). "I'll… be right back, alright?"

"Sure," chirped Alfred, waving. "Take your time!"

"Take your time?" Repeated Arthur, hissing his words out scornfully as he walked up to stand next to his friend. "ITake your time/I?"

"Oh, Artie, shut up."

olu ***********************/uol

"Ludwig," whined Feliciano, coming into his partner's eyesight simply by turning the corner. He rushed up to the blonde somewhat slowly (the only time that man ran fast was when Ludwig told him he was going out for lunch), and when he was next to him, he tugged on his sleeve and looked up at him like a kicked puppy. "Ludwig, I need your help," He said. "Or… these citizens need your help… We need your help!"

Rolling his eyes, Ludwig stood up straight, standing a good two feet higher than his partner. His blonde hair was tightly pulled back, giving view to a rather large forehead, which was forever crinkled in irritation, mostly due from spending so much time with his Italian partner.

Ludwig Weillschmidt was a large, muscular, German man, who, instead of putting civilians at ease, usually made them feel very scared. This was balanced out by his partner's bouncy, happy aura, and the two were a rather peculiar pair while patrolling the city. Patrolling was usually the highlight of what they did, for numerous reasons. Feliciano literally cried if Elizabeta did not have them as partners, saying that he only wanted to be with Ludwig, that he only wanted Ludwig to protect him, and that stirred some lost form of affection mixed with sympathy from within the German – and since Feliciano was himself, Elizabeta didn't trust him enough to put him in drastic or potentially dangerous situation.

Feliciano lowered his eyebrows and began to look sweet and vulnerable, and Ludwig crumpled like a cookie.

"This is Ludwig!" chirped the brunette, hauling his partner over to the blondes he had talked to earlier. "He's gonna help you find your brother, OK?"

olu ***********************/u/ol

Matthew nearly crumpled onto the pavement. The scent of faint, sweet cologne filled his nostrils, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. His knees buckled, and he would have fallen over, had the man behind him not wrapped one of his arms lightly around his waist from behind.

"Boys," purred a familiar voice. "You're not gonna be rough too, are you? Not with a little thing like this."

"Francis," gushed the man in front of Matthew. "Hey—Nice to see ya—How've you been? IWhere've/I you been, Man, I hardly—"

Matthew watched, uncertain, as the two men before him began to shift on their feet. Right now, he was feeling lost and scared and alone in the big city of Paris—even with his hero's arm around his waist. But he couldn't deny a little, miniscule spark of excitement, buried underneath all of that fear and anxiety. He clutched his nimble fingers around the arm wound around him, soliciting a catlike smile from his savior.

"Well," the Frenchman purred. "I've been here and there. Nothing you need to worry about. Why don't you boys head home?"

"Ah, we should," came the other man, a little too quickly, and he waved his hand in the air, as if trying to fan the tension in the air away. "We gotta be goin' anyway, you know? Nice meetin', you kid! Haha! Don't get lost again, ya hear?"

And so, quickly shuffling off, the two men bypassed Matthew and his savior, rather quickly, and soon their footsteps died away. The only sound Matthew heard was the insanely loud beating of his heart and the mumble of the crowd of tourists.

"F…Friends of yours?" He finally choked out, nervously.

"Not even close." The man let him go and turned him around, and Matthew's knees almost gave way again as he stared into the eyes of the man from the airport.

"Y-You… How did you…?"

"Call it coincidence, call it intuition." The older man shrugged, raising his hands with his shoulders. "Call it what you like, the point is, you're… lost."

"Y-Yeah, I know I'm lost," sputtered Matthew, embarrassed. He tightened his vice-grip on his shoulder strap, as if that would boost his courage. "But… I'm alright. I'm perfectly fine!"

"Sweetheart," said the Frenchman, his eyebrows pulling down ever so lightly, in an almost sympathetic way. "You didn't look very fine a moment ago."

At this remark, Matthew's face turned a lovely shade of magenta, and he didn't know if it was from being called Sweetheart or from being embarrassed from looking like the damsel in distress in this situation. "Well… I mean… I-I'm OK now. And that's what counts right?"

The man in front of him simply stared, as if he was inspecting Matthew. Then, a twitch of a smile spread across his face, one-of-a-kind and crookedly sweet. "Oui," he said, sounding bemused. "But, if it happens again?"

Matthew's eyebrows pulled down quizzically. "I… I didn't realize these sort of occurrences were so regular."

In reply, the Frenchman winked. "Nothing is as it seems in the city of Paris. You have learned this by now, non?"

Matthew sighed, looking down towards the ground and loosening the vice-grip on the shoulder strap of his bag. "I suppose..."

And it was at that point in time where Francis showed his true colors.

"Ah, vous la pauvre petite chose! Perdu dans la grande ville de Paris, sans un pour vous défendre! Bien, l'inquiétude pas, petit chéri! Je, Francis Bonnefoy, protégerai avec ma même vie! Pas la pluie ni la grêle ni la neige fondue ni la neige pourraient peut-être m'arracher de vous et--"

Feeling his eyebrows draw down quizzically, Matthew watched, confused, as the Frenchman - Francis Bonnefoy, presumably - carried on about... defending... and rain and snow and... He would've understood what he was saying - but he was speaking too fast, Matthew couldn't keep up with him.

"S-Sir, I," mumbled the Canadian, trying to get a word in edgewise. "I, uh... I can't..."

"Penser, une petite chose adorable comme vous tout seul! Bien, comme j'ai dit, je devrai ici vous protéger! Je vous montrerai autour de la ville, vous ça aimer? Je serai vous êtes le chevalier, vous êtes l'ami, vous êtes le prince! Et vous! Vous pouvez être mon... seriez-vous offensés si je me vous suis appelés une princesse...?"

At the boys confused look, Francis gave a blank smile. "...You do understand what I'm saying, right?"

"N-Not really," whispered Matthew, shyly. "You're very... fluent, and I'm not that good, yet..."

"Nonsense!" cheered the man, brightening his smile, and it completely made Matthew melt. He remembered his brother telling him to be wary of strangers, but he found himself unable to be suspicious of Francis at all. He didn't seem suspicious. He seemed like a friendly, albeit dramatic, man that Matthew wouldn't mind hanging around with... for just a bit longer. "I will teach you French, yes? Mattieu, vous m'aimer vous montrer autour de ma magnifique ville?"

Matthew stared at him, bewildered, and his glasses slipped further down his nose.

The Frenchman promptly settled them back into their place in front of his eyes, with another friendly smile. "You're response is to say, 'Oui, Effectivement, j'aimerais à.'"

Gulping, Matthew drew down his eyebrows again, in an attempt to look serious. " Effectivement, j'aimerais à...?"

"There! Now you know how to say, 'Indeed, I would love to,' when someone asks you if you want them to show you around a city!"

Across the city, sitting at a small cafe miles away from the two blondes conversing in French, sat a young Italian boy with a sour expression, who cursed the older of the said blondes for turning his phone off and disappearing like that.

Said young Italian boy then glared out the window, and began to plot convoluted schemes to track down the older French man as mentioned before.


	3. You'll Have To Give Him Time

"You have: Three New Voice Messages."

Francis sighed, stepping away from the Canadian he had decided to drag about this city. "Mathieu, give me a moment."

Turning his head, Matthew watched him turn away from him so that he was looking at the Frenchman's back, and frowned. Francis had assured him that the best way to spot his brother was to trail around the place, certainly appreciating the city along the way.

"Voice Message: Number one," Sang his phone, and Francis massaged his temple, ready for the message. "Francis, you cheeky bastard! Where the hell are you? You told me you'd meet me for lunch. Forget already? I hate you so much, why does Antonio keep making me come find you? Just come back to us, for God's sake! Christ!"

Alright, he thought to himself. Certainly not the worst that Lovino could've given him. But, then again, he had two more.

"Voice Message: Number two: You fucking asshole! I sent you that voice message ififteen minutes ago/i! Are you ignoring me? You fuckface, you're ignoring me! I cannot wait to tell Antonio that you're too busy trying to find someone to screw to talk to me! Who's helped you through all this? Me! Who's been on the lookout for you? Me! Ugh, fucking Frenchies! I hate you, chigii! Fucking call me!"

Francis nodded absentmindedly, as if he was trying to brush that message off. Again, he had certainly heard worse. After the proper mental preparation, he headed onward to the third and final message from Lovino.

"Voice Message: Number three: Oh my God!"

Francis jumped, and Matthew jumped, the former covered his phone with his hand so the latter wouldn't look at him so oddly. "P-Pardon me, Mathieu."

Lovino's voice rang loud and clear. "--When I find you-- Wheeen I find you-- You don't even want to bknow/b what I'm going to do to you - you don't. I guess we're just not that important to you then, are we? You fucking two-faced blonde piece of shit, I can't fucking believe you! I am going to find you and dammit--"

Then Francis noticed that the last voice message went on for another two minutes and promptly shut the phone, stuffing it back into his pocket.

"Nothing to worry about," He assured the tourist. "Just an, um, acquaintance, you could see, with a fowl temper."

Matthew simply shook his head and followed the Frenchman who motioned him to cross the street. "You seem to have a lot of odd acquaintances, don't you?"

Falling into a nice little rhythm and walking side by side, the pair made their way through the bustling crowd of merchants and tourists, as Francis casually slipped an arm around the Canadian's shoulders, smiling.

"You don't even know," He said, almost wistfully. He pointed upwards, motioning the large tower that was impossible to miss. "We will head up there first. Who knows, perhaps your brother is looking for you at the same place. And if not, we will find someone who has seen them."

Matthew gathered that he really should've been more uncomfortable with how buddy-buddy the Frenchman was being, but he couldn't bring himself to mind. The way his arm slung around his shoulders was familiar, like all the times Alfred had done that to him. It was casual and friendly, and it made Matthew feel calmer.

From deep inside his mind, he being to conjure up ideas that Francis would be a good friend. He-- He could come visit him in Canada if he ever wanted to, and during their stay in Paris, maybe they could... get to know each other-- No, Matthew, stop, he told himself. There is absolutely no point in getting your hopes up. How old is he now? Certainly older than yourself.

You'll bore him in a heartbeat.

"Mathieu," Piped Francis, looking down at him with friendly eyes and curious expression. "Are you alright? Are you nervous? Need your space?"

"No, I-- That's not it at all! I was just... well, thinking."

"Hmm," hummed the older man, and he turned his head away from Matthew just long enough to pluck a daffodil out of a vase from that sat in one of the passing windows. Nonchalantly, he plucked it away from it's siblings and handed it to the tourist. "And what're you thinking about? What do you think about, Mathieu?"

That, Matthew concluded, was the most vague question he had ever been asked. "Well," he murmured, accepting the flower and looking it over. "I think about a lot of things, like everyone else..."

"I see," chirped Francis, tugging him along the streets. But he wasn't looking ahead or at Matthew. He was looking all around the streets, as if he was looking for someone. When Matthew noticed that and became suspicious, he told himself, of course he's looking for someone, we're looking for Alfred. "So, Mon Cher. What brings you to Paris?"

Rolling his eyes affectionately, Matthew let his hand and the flower tucked into it fall to his side as he looked up, inspecting the rooftops. "Alfred dragged me here," He said, smiling. "I got a... scholarship, first of all, but... I didn't need it. So I told myself I was going to invest and save up, not like I couldn't use the money. But Alfred talked me into going on vacation with him and our friend Arthur. So... here I am."

"It sounds like your brother talks you into lots of things," commented Francis, smiling at him with a twinge of something nice, something almost mischievous and something charming.

Matthew felt his cheeks heat up solely at the fact that someone so nice and so beautiful was genuinely interested in him. "Well-- Well, he does. He didn't really talk me into anything this time, though. He bought the plane tickets and... that was that." He sighed, looking down at his daffodil. "But he's nice. He's always been there for me, he's the best brother I could ask for--"

Francis smiled and listened, glancing back at Matthew's face every now and again, then returning to inspecting the streets. He maintained a look of serenity and calmness -- until he saw a large, tall, blonde man wearing a police uniform. He paled.

"--E-Er! M-Mathieu, w-why don't we take this route?" Quickly, Francis ducked his head so that the younger boy blocked him from the officers view, and tugged him away from the crowd. "M-Much less crowded, don't you think?"

"What?" Peeped Matthew, letting himself be dragged along. "B-But you said this was the best way to--"

"Best way to go sometimes! Not today! See, look at all the people."

Had Matthew had time to turn his head and inspect what Francis was so desperately trying to get away from, he would've seen a tall blonde man, a short brunette who seemed to be radiating cheerfulness, as well as Arthur and his brother. However, he had no such time.

uol

* * *

ol/u

Maybe, Antonio thought, he was just a masochist.

This thought hit him as he sat at his little desk in the little 'office' he had been given, his chin propped up on his knuckles, listening to Lovino Vargas parade around the room yelling obscenities, and Antonio was sure that if there was a lamp or anything near him, he would have knocked it over.

"Lovino," Antonio mused, his eyes closed calmly. "As adorable as you look when you're mad. You really should calm down. Besides, when has Francis every listend to anyone?"

In response, Lovino sent him a deathly glare over his shoulder, stopping mid rant, but Antonio just smiled at him, which made him want to break something (and by something, he meant the Spaniards neck).

"Oh, shut up," He hissed, spitefully. "Why don't you do anything about him never listening? You treat him like a stray cat, Antonio: you feed him when he comes and then let him go."

Antonio smiled at the pretty choice of words and leaned back on his chair. "That's essentially all he'll ever be, isn't it?" He asked, with that casual, sweet, friendly tone that infuriated the Italian. "It doesn't mean he'll never come around, though. You have to give him time, Lovinito."

Lovino rolled his eyes, pursing his lips together in a spiteful pout. "Well, Antonio, not all of us are blessed with such patience," he spat, turning a bright shade of red and looking away from the older man.

But Antonio just laughed as he always did. Which could become quite infuriating sometimes, Lovino noted: when everything you say is countered by laughter and someone telling you how cute you are. Antonio leaned across his desk, lightly wrapping his long fingers around the Italian's wrist to pull him closer. "Come here, Lovinito," he cooed, pulling him over gently.

"Don't call me that, you bastard," murmured Lovino, averting his eyes from Antonio but coming closer to him nonetheless. His face grew brighter the closer he got to the man, until he was sitting on his desk, his head turned away sharply.

"Listen to me," Antonio whispered, bringing the boy closer to him. "You, my little tomato, are too uptight. Relax, won't you? Please? Things will work out in the end. You just need to relax, and things will work out in the end. Trust me."

Lovino gradually looked up to face the Spaniard, who was smiling affectionately just like he always was. His scowl deepened, turning to tug lightly on the man's shirt, bringing him the slightest bit closer. "...Fine."

uol

* * *

ol/u

"Francis!" Called the blonde, being pulled forward hurriedly through another crowd. "Francis, where are you taking me?"

"Ah, well, you see," Francis yelled over the crowd, pulling the tourist closer as not to lose him. "I am going to get a friend of mine - another nice little acquaintance - and he," he gave a good tug on the boy, bringing him close, up against his chest, and smiled crookedly down at him. "is going to find your brother."

Matthew's face flushed a bright red, his eyes widening. He didn't quite know what to say, far too shocked to say anything, and so he just stayed there, pressed up against the Frenchman, who's hand crawled down his waist to hold him, then pulled him out of the crowd, into another alleyway.

Francis sighed, letting go of the Canadian's wrist and walking down the deserted alleyway, faintly listening to the heavy murmur of the crowd. "Busy city. Busy, busy city. You should've come... well, not in the summer. It's terrible in the summer you see."

Looking up, Matthew watched as Francis climbed up a flight of stairs, which seemed to lead up to some sort of apartment. The iron steps were covered with rust, but the Frenchman flitted over them, only to hang over the railing, high above the street.

Matthew smiled lightly, watching his guide lean on the railing and drape his arm over it, and watched Francis's hand swing gently in front of him. "So... this is it?"

"This is what, chér?" Answered the Frenchman peacefully, his eyes closed and his position relaxed. "You were expecting something?"

"But you said..." Matthew trailed off, looking around the alleyway, frowning gently. "Then... where are we?"

Francis shrugged, smiling almost sleepily. "Who knows? Listen, Mathieu, if there's one thing I want you to learn in Paris, it's this."

Light as a feather, Francis jumped from the railing, landing gracefully in front of the Canadian, who in turn jumped and blushed a nice shade of pink. Gently, Francis took his hand and pressed his lips to it, smiling to himself all the while. "Go with the flow."

"Matthew! T--That's him!"

Sharply, Matthew turned his head to look across the crowd, and vaguely made out the shape of Arthur. His heart jumped, and he smiled widely. "Ar--"

Francis, however, was only looking at the large blonde policemen standing behind him. Without a word, he yanked Matthew on, sprinting away again with the Canadian toe.

"Francis! No, Francis, wait--!"

"Just keeping running," breathed Francis, stopping suddenly to brace his hands on Matthew's shoulders. "Please trust me, Mathieu."

Matthew stopped, listened to the screams of... of whoever it was Francis was running from.

He followed without a second thought.


	4. Most Wanted Man In Paris

"That's him! That's my brother! A-And that's that creepy French guy from the airport--"

"Alfred, we're in a town full of ifrench/i people--"

Feliciano did not think of himself as the best police officer in the world (that was Ludwig), but he knew how to do some things! Like, he could make pasta, and he wasn't that bad at soccer... Oh, and he could calm down civilians really well!

"Hey, hey, hey," cooed the Italian officer, smiling like nothing was wrong in the world. "It's OK~! That guy with your brother is a really important guy that we have to catch anyway, so we'll get everybody on it in a jiffy and--"

"What?" squawked Alfred, paling. "M-M-My brother's been kidnapped by a wanted man? That you're already after? How is this supposed to make me not worry?"

Feliciano looked genuinely perplexed by this. And frightened. It took a lot of self control not to latch onto Ludwig's arm and make him fix this. "Um... Well... I'm sorry..."

Alfred scoffed, and gave a determined look in the direction his brother had been in. "Fine! If you guys won't save him, I will!"

"Alfred," sputtered Arthur, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him back. "Don't be bloody stupid! You'll get yourself killed!"

"He's my brother," Alfred retorted, and he turned to look at the Briton fully, so close to him already. He had to look down at him with those fiercely blue eyes. There was no changing his mind. "My brother. It's my responsibility to go after him!"

Arthur could feel his affections for the tall blonde before him bubble behind his lips, ready to burst out if he parted them. So he kept them tightly pursed together. The two had a bit of a staring contest, until Arthur swallowed harshly, pushing the words he didn't want to come out back in, and nodded once, firmly. "F-Fine. But I'm coming with you."

After a moment, a glorious smile began to spread across Alfred's face, so blinding it infected Arthur, and his lips twitched up in the lightest hint of a smile.

"Sure," said Alfred, grabbing hold of Arthur's arm with a nod. "Let's go."

"W-Wait!" Ludwig jumped, and it took a strong bout of self-control not to grab the two tourists and pull them back. "Y-You can't just run after a--"

"The hell I can't," Alfred called at the officer, already running off. "Thanks for the help, you guys, we'll take it from here!"

Ludwig was left standing on a street corner desperately wishing for alcohol. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Well, Feli--"

"We shouldn't go after them."

Startled, Ludwig turned around to look at his Italian partner, who looked a little frightened. "We should call Roderich and look for Bonnefoy. Those two are tourists, they're not going to get anywhere." Feliciano looked to the side solemnly, as if looking for something. "We should call Roderich and have some people dispatched. We can look for those two later."

Ludwig had absolutely nothing to say to that. So he grumbled, pulled out his phone, and mumbled a short praise to the Italian.

He had a bad feeling about this.

olu***********************/u/ol

"Francis!" Matthew hissed in a whisper, pulling on the man's shirt. "Why are we here?"

By here, he meant crammed into an elevator that led to the top of The Eiffel Tower where he was sandwiched betweens lots of other tourists.

Francis, in response, slipped his arm around the boy's shoulders and looked to the side, out the window. He seemed deep in thought, and his eyes scanned the city streets as they rose upward.

"In a moment, chér," He answered, seriously. "Just a moment, I will explain."

Matthew sighed shakily, and looked back to the people in the elevator rather than answering Francis. He spotted a woman look at him over her shoulder with a warm, all-knowing sort of smile. He blinked, and once he realized what that smile meant, his face grew bright scarlet. He opened his mouth to sputter an explanation, but his voice was caught on his throat, and the woman turned away from him.

He simply blushed more, and decided to look out the window with Francis. Actually, he did more staring at Francis that at the city.

At this point, the sun was setting, and night was filling the sky up quickly. Matthew gripped the fabric of Francis's shirt tighter as if that would help calm him down. He had sinking suspicion that night time would not make the city a more pleasant place then it already was.

"This is your first time in the city, isn't it?" Asked Francis, looking down at the tourist warmly and finally averting his eyes from the streets. "There's a restaurant near the top, I'll treat you to dinner. How does that sound?"

It sound suspicious was how it sounded. Matthew stared back at the Frenchman and frowned. "Francis, I just... I just want to know--"

"I will explain everything over dinner, alright?"

Matthew sighed, looking down at his shoes, then out onto the streets again. "Alright," He whispered.

olu***********************/u/ol

Roderich Edelstein liked to think of himself as a respectable man.

He was head of the police department, he lived in a nice little house (with his nice little cat whom he loved to death), and the people he worked with were... Tolerable.

"Shut up!" screamed Vash, setting his phone away from his face. "I'm on the phone! Can you guys kindly shut the hell up for once in your life?" He darted his head back to the phone, and his voice became noticeably quieter and nicer. "Anyway, I probably won't be home until late so... so can you get to sleep without me-- Feliciano, I am on the phone!! Lilly, I have to go, I'll talk to you later, alright? I-I love you, too."

"Vash, Vash, before you yell at me... I-It's important!" Feliciano tore through the room to get to Elizabeta, who was in the midst of looking at herself in a handheld mirror, sitting on a desk. "Liza, Liza! W-We found 'im!"

Roderich sighed. He would've liked his job to be peaceful. Oh well.

"Feli, what's the matter," cooed Elizabeta, the mother hen of task force. She let the Italian officer cling to her, patting his head while he sobbed and cried. She enveloped him in a soft hug, muffling his sobs slightly.

"We encountered Francis Bonnefoy," said Ludwig, as serious as usual, to Roderich. The brunette stopped himself from flinching and looked up.

"H-Hey," mumbled Vash, looking over towards Tino. "What're they... whispering about?"

"Hm?" Tino looked up, sitting on the same desk Elizabeta was. "I don't know. Why don't you ask them?"

Vash blinked, unmoving. "B-Because--"

"L-Ludwig and I found some nice people who said they l-lost their brother," sobbed Feliciano into Elizabeta's chest. "A-And then Ludwig found their brother, but he was with Francis Bonnefoy! And then the two guys looking for their brother ran off!!"

The room became quiet for a moment. To break the rare silence, Lucas kicked the door down.

"Heya, everybody!" He exclaimed, twisting around as he walked to greet everyone in the room. "So, Nick called a second ago. Says he spotted that Bonnefoy dude you were talkin' about."

In response to this, Vash jumped up and reached for his gun. "Right. So we'll go out and hunt for him now?"

"Woah, dude, chill out!" Lucas raised his hand and smiled widely, as if nothing was wrong. "Nick says it's OK, and that he's tailin' him and all that jazz. He says he'll call back if anything happ--"

The Danish officer was cut off as Berwald stood up abruptly, his eyes hidden by his glasses, and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He glanced at the screen, then looked back over at Roderich. "'At was Nikolai," he informed the brunette, his speech slightly broken. "Said he lost Bonnefoy."

Lucas stood there, almost innocently. "...Oh."

Quickly, Roderich stood up, and looked his team over. Their heads turned to look at him, and he took a bit of pride in knowing he was the 'team leader' so to speak.

"Vash, Elizabeta, Ludwig, and Feliciano," He said, seriously. "I'm dispatching you on patrol. Find him."

"What about me, huh?" smiled Lucas, practically jumping for joy. "What about me?"

"You can stay here with Tino and Berwald."

"...Aww..."

olu***********************/u/ol

"Um... Francis, what're we--"

"It would appear," soothed the Frenchman. "That you've gotten roped into this now, haven't you?"

Matthew watched the lights around the city light up Francis's face. He looked so calm, looking out the window of the restaurant and staring at the streets. Matthew felt so out of place with him. He felt his insides shake at the sight of the bright city lights dancing across the man's face, and his fingers were twitching together nervously in his lap.

The only sound Matthew heard was the mumbling of other people in the restaurant and the city sounds from the streets below. But nothing from the man in front of him.

Finally, calmly, the Frenchman looked up at him, and opened his mouth. He slowly shut it, sighed, and tried again.

"My name is Francis Bonnefoy," He began. "I am the Mafia of this town's second most important person, and probably the most wanted man in Paris at the moment."

Matthew paled.

"I-I'm sorry," he sputtered, slicking some of his hair behind his ear nervously. "W-What?"

Francis simply smiled, albeit faintly. "It's really nothing to be worried about. I hope. Alright," He leaned back, crossing his legs and smiling brighter. "Maybe it is. But that's beside the point. Before you get worried about having a moonlit dinner with a criminal, let me say that I haven't done anything." He paused, looking up, as if considering something. "Well, nothing too bad. I really would love it if I wasn't in the position I am right now but when you're in the Mafia you can't... just resign."

Matthew had no idea what he just said, but he apparently looked like he did, because Francis kept talking.

"Two weeks ago," Francis said, nonchalantly, as he looked down at the streets again. "Three... lesser men that work under me decided it would be a good idea to take a very wealthy politician's daughter hostage." He paused briefly, and sighed again. For a moment, he looked almost irritated, his eyebrows drawing down for a moment, as if the memory aggravated him. "They held her for ransom while she was taking part in a school dance. A, um.... A lot of peopled died. They didn't get there money, they were captured. But that didn't help the people they had killed. My name was the first thing out of their mouths, that they worked under me, that it was my idea." He flashed a smile, and Matthew didn't know if it was fake or not. "So now everyone in Paris is under the impression that I'm insane and will try something like that again."

The Canadian stared at him. Francis stared back.

"Did you hear any of that?"

"Y-Yeah," Matthew assured him, looking down. "I did.... Um... So... what're you going to do now...?"

"Well, that's my problem, isn't it?" Francis smiled, raising his glass to Matthew. "I'll figure something out, don't you worry. I'm very sorry you had to get caught up in all of this, Mathieu. I promise I'm going to find a way to get us both out of this city unharmed."

Matthew nodded solemnly, looking at his own glass. "What about..." He looked up, his eyebrows drawn down in worry. "What about my brother? I have to find him--"

"Don't worry, chér," soothed Francis, smiling that same warm smile that made Matthew forget he hadn't known the man all his life. "I will find your brother for you. I will make all of this extremely easy for you, I promise. I just ask that... comply."

Matthew thought about this. He didn't really know how he had gotten into the mess (it was just his luck), but a part of him jumped at the chance to help Francis. He couldn't pinpoint the reason why he automatically put so much faith into this man. He smiled lightly and timidly, nodding once. "Alright," he whispered. "Of course, I mean... I do sort of owe you, you know? You saved me back there... I'll help anyway I can."

Francis wasn't listening. He looked out the window of the restaurant again and glared, and Matthew had never seen him look so frightening. Abruptly, he stood up, almost making the tourist at the table with him jump. "Mathieu, we have to go," He said, briskly, and took hold of the Canadian's hand, who in turn flushed and quickly stood with him.

"Go? W-Why? What's the matter--" Matthew trailed off, realizing the Frenchman wasn't listening anyway. He was too busy opening his phone, looking at the 'missed call' list that said Lovino over and over again, and pressing 'call back.'

"Lovi," He breathed, weaving Matthew through the restaurant. "I need your help."


	5. The Man's Bloody Captive

**Hey, Guys! So, sorry for the lack of Authors notes on this whole fanfic. SO busy. I'm really sorry! But I lovelovelove all my readers, did you know that? Enjoy, you guys!! **

Lovino Vargas came from a nice family. He entered the Mafia of his own free will and almost immediately moved to high-standards. But that was because his boss took so much liking to him.

It was not a secret that he held power over Antonio. So really, Lovino Vargas was in an odd sort of placement in the Mafia. One day he was running the joint, and the next, he was doing dirty work. It really depended on Antonio's mood.

Today, he had gone between being sent out to find Francis, from where he was now. And that was sitting on Antonio's desk, facing him, and receiving small kisses and compliments.

Antonio was not the sort of man you put in charge of the Mafia, and he had told Lovino, myriad times, that he had never wanted to be where he was. But, as he had been told, things happen; things that Antonio seldom had any control of.

Currently, the Spaniard was trying to pull Lovino into his lap, and was well on his way to succeeding on his mission. He planted feather-light kisses all over the boy, telling him how nice he was to help him in these situations, how sweet and cute he was, how Antonio would have to make it up to him sometime. The best way to get through Lovino's walls that he had built up around him was by stroking his ego, Antonio had learned.

"Tch," scoffed the Italian, giving into the soft touches. "You don't have to repay me, bastard. This is my job, isn't it?"

"True. But still…" Antonio gently tangled his fingers in the other's hair, bringing a soft kiss to the top of his head. "Sometimes I am so mean to you. I give you jobs that I should give to the people who don't mean anything, and for that, I am so sorry."

With every word, Lovino let himself sink deeper into letting his guard down, almost nuzzling into the touches. "Well, if you really have to, you could… I don't know… treat me to lunch sometime…"

"I will treat you to anything you like, Lovinito," cooed the Spaniard, pressing more kisses to the top of his head. "If ever you need or would like anything, just tell me."

Lovino would never in a million years let anyone see him like this, so needy for attention; Antonio was just an exception—sometimes. Slowly, he turned to accept the kisses, and before long was getting showered with the affection he clearly deserved—

The Italian jumped away quickly, nearly falling off Antonio's desk, at the feeling of his phone vibrating in his pocket, and cursed quietly. He fumbled in his pocket, looking for the interrupting little thing, and when he found it, he snarled into the speaker, "iWhat?/i"

"Lovi," Came Francis, his voice almost low. "I need your help."

All of Lovino's feelings, save hatred, were shoved out the window, as the Italian turned away from Antonio to pour his aggression onto Francis.

"Really," He hissed, his voice dripping with sarcasm and irritation. "You need my help inow?/i What about two hours ago when you wouldn't answer your damn phone? I could've been getting fucking gang-raped, but you were too busy being a prick – as usual – to say, Hey, Why don't I think about someone else for once in my miserable life?! Jesus, Francis, I thought something happened! I thought you had gotten caught!"

"I'm actually on the verge of being caught," was Francis's casual response.

-

Maybe it was being up so high, but Matthew was beginning to feel himself grow a little faint.

He was thankful for Francis's fingers wound so tightly around his wrist and pulling him all about the tower. He was sure the man was talking, but everything was spinning and blurring and he could barely hear (and what was that ringing in his ears?), so he wasn't exactly sure what the topic at hand was. All he knew that it was taking a considerate amount of effort not to collapse.

And Francis must've realized the Canadian wasn't listening because he quickly zipped around to brace his hands on Matthew's shoulders and half-glare at him seriously. "Mathieu, are you listening to me?"

Matthew felt his cheeks glaze over with a pink tint, as he returned the hold and gripped the Frenchman's jacket lightly. "O-Oh, yes," He slurred, feeling his knees wobble. "Were you talking, by the way?"

Francis rolled his eyesb, smiling faintly and/b pulling the younger along. "It's nothing. Just keep quiet and follow me."

This was a bad idea, that much he knew already. He couldn't believe he was dragging a ikid/i into this mess. But, now that the boy was here, there was no getting him out. His best course of action would be to fly him out of the country as soon as possible, and with the mess that was going on now, he doubted Matthew would want to come back.

He disregarded the lights that were beginning to shine on him, flickering across him, and turned another corner. "Mathieu," he started, in that calm, serious tone. "In the near future, I am probably going to do something reckless and something that you will not like. I'd ask you to act surprised and scared and – Ah, how do you say it? – Out of it, but I don't think that will be a problem—"

For a split second, the whole of the Eiffel Tower fell silent, but as all seconds do, it passed, and shrieks and squeals filled the ears of the two on the run. A blinding light shone directly onto the pair, and it wasn't the romantic French moon. On impulse, Francis rose his hand to block the light from his face as he attempted to look past the blinding white and look down to where it was shining.

Standing on top of a vehicle was a woman dressed in a police officer's uniform and a matching hat, with long, chocolate hair blowing behind her. She was holding a megaphone and wore an expression that said she was not the woman you wanted to mess with.

"Francis Bonnefoy!" She called through her megaphone. "This is police! Relinquish your hostage and come out with your hands up!"

Francis thought it said a lot about his personality that the first thing he thought about her was that she had nice hips.

-

It was safe to say Arthur was never going ianywhere/i with Alfred again.

On the other hand, he gathered he should be feeling something other than irritation for the man next to him as he watched a French Criminal wrap his arms around Matthew as though he was going to push him off the Eiffel Tower. That was probably going to happen.

For the past hour, he had let Alfred drag him all around the bloody city until the American had caught sight of a police car and somehow found the sheer strength to chase after it and catch up with it in time to ask it for help. He had followed the squad here, and, well… They had found Matthew.

Ignoring the woman on the car screaming into a megaphone, Alfred began flailing around, shouting every little thing that came to mind (which was never good, because whatever Alfred thought at any moment, he said). And Arthur fully understood why he would be upset. It was just that his state of mind at the moment didn't know what to do so he just stood there silently and stared.

"Fuckin' Lunatic, do you get some sort of sick satisfaction out of pickin' boys off the street?! Did you touch him?! I bet he fuckin' touched him, Artie, sick fuck—"

"Sir," Said the woman on the car, putting her megaphone down and looking at him fully. "Please calm down."

"Calm down?" Alfred echoed, his eyes wide and his tall form shaking with what seemed to be rage (even though Alfred's rage was different then most rage). "Calm down? Lady, that guy's my brother! Not the French guy, his fuckin'… fuckin'… Artie what's the—"

"Captive," seethed Arthur, pinching his temple. "His captive. And she's right. Screaming isn't going to help the poor boy so just… please keep calm."

Alfred stared at him, his jaw slightly slack and his eyes wide, taking on that childlike expression he usually wore. "But… How am I gonna…?"

Arthur must've been a mother in a past life, because he constantly found himself wanting to take Alfred's (or Matthew's) head and just sort of cradle it against his chest. But, he reminded himself frequently, he could not that, as both of them were grown men, not his responsibility, and would certainly not be good for his self-image and/or pride.

"Let the police do their job, Alfred," He told him, in that same motherly tone. "There's nothing you can do at this point but—"

"—Nothing I can do? There damn well is something I can do!" With that, Alfred stormed up the Eiffel Tower, taking the blasted stairs since the police had blocked the elevator off. And Arthur, turning red from realizing just what an idiot his object of affections was, scurried after worriedly.

Meanwhile, the woman on the vehicle remained as resolute and professional as ever.

"No, Lucas, we don't need any back-up," said her Swiss companion, who was standing beside the car and speaking into a phone. "Yes, we will call you if we do. Now go… busy yourself with something."

Elizabeta did not waver, her eyes locked on the man on the tower and his hostage. She watched him whisper something in the boys' ears, then pushed her finger onto the button on her megaphone and spoke again.

"Francis Bonnefoy! You have no escape routes! Take the elevator with your hostage and relinquish him at once!"

In response, Francis Bonnefoy blew the woman a kiss and stepped backward, maneuvering around the elevator, side stepping between the large bars, and dropping off the tower, eliciting gasps and shrieks from the crowd he had gathered.

-

"Bastard," Seethed Lovino, leaning against of the bars from the tower and trying to block out the police woman's loud voice. "Can't believe he sent me to do this. Why couldn't he have sent you bastards?"

Heracles Karpusi never objected to the verbal abuse Lovino laid down on him. It was his brother, Sadiq, who twitched at the smart remarks. But Lovino just crossed his arms and gave him a look that dared him to speak up.

Sighing, the Turkish man, leaned against the bar with Lovino and looked up, waiting to see Francis's shadow. "Damned if I know," He replied, lazily.

"Whatever," Scoffed Lovino, turning to look through the bars. "Just remember that if you don't catch him, you'll be joining him on the pavement."

Both men smiled at this, bemused by the small Italian's threat, but turned to face the bars with him. The still moment was interrupted as they heard footsteps crashing against the metal steps they stood on, and turned left to look at their intruders in comical unison.

Alfred, with his face flushed, stared at the men. "What the hell are you—"

Sadiq stepped forward, punching the man harshly in the gut. He gasped loudly in turn, doubling over in response to the pain. Paces behind him came Arthur, who was looking more pale by the second.

"Alfred—" Sadiq cut short another sentence and punched the Brit in the face, earning a sharp intake of night air and a near unconscious blonde.

Lovino remained unfazed, turning to look out to the city again, waiting for Francis. "Take them to the van," He instructed, coldly.

Sadiq nodded, throwing the two tourists over his shoulders and starting down the stairwell again. The Brit on his left shoulder moaned once, reaching out to grasp Alfred's arm weakly, but kept still. Not at all distracted from the incident, Lovino and Heracles looked onward.

With his usual elegance, Francis backed off the tower and dropped down. The drop was short lived, as he was immediately caught by the Grecian to Lovino's right.

He might some sort of casual sound in the back of his throat, then smiled up at the three of them. "Ah, Lovino. Did you miss me?"

"Shut. Up," seethed the Italian, his eyes narrowed for influence. "Almost got yourself killed, Francis. And who the fuck is this kid?"

Matthew, who had been remotely quiet throughout the entirety of the stunt, confusedly stared at the men before him, clinging tightly to his captor, before promptly passing out.

"Well," Mused Francis, passing the boy to Heracles. "That was Matthew."


End file.
